Venus as a Boy

Summary

A novel of extraordinary power from a writer to watch. In a small flat in London, a young man is turning to gold. But before he dies, before his skin and eyes and tongue harden into a golden death mask, he wants to share the amazing story of his life. Born and raised on the barren Orkney Islands off the coast of Scotland, his childhood is a brutal one, devoid of tenderness. It is a miracle when he meets Tracy, falls in love, and discovers his true gift: the merest touch of him is enough to induce visions of angels and orchids. The physical heights he is able to reach-and to which he can bring others-go far beyond any normal sensual pleasure. Armed with this inexplicable talent, he makes his way to London, where he falls in with a group of teens forced to make a living on the street. Luke Sutherland's modern-day myth about the power of love veers from stratosphere to gutter, from visions of heaven to the all-too-mortal yearning for even one glimpse of it. With Venus as a Boy Sutherland has written a moving, poetic novel that manages to imbue the harsh realities of life on the street with a mesmerizing and ethereal beauty.

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Venus as a Boy - Luke Sutherland

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Published by Bloomsbury, New York and London

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Contents

A Note on the Author

A Note on the Type

93 Feet East, Brick Lane, London, March 2002. Backstage, after a show, I was cornered by a very pretty, very wasted guy called Pascal. His half-empty bottle of absinthe and wide mascara-spattered eyes should have been warning enough, but I was in the mood for sparring.

He launched into a rambling explanation of how his friend, Désirée, wanted to see me. Would I go back to Soho and meet him?

You've had too much to drink, I said. Désirée is a girl's name.

You'll understand when you meet him, he replied.

Why me? I asked, not at all keen to tag along.

He's read your books.

So?

He lived in Orkney.

You still haven't told me why he wants to see me.

He's going to die and wants you to tell his story.

Gigs attract all kinds of oddballs. I tried to walk away, but Pascal pushed me back. As I forced a way past, he lashed out at me. We fought. Bouncers broke us up and threw him out.

A month later, a package, addressed to me, was handed in to my record-company office. Inside, I found a card inscribed with the message: 'Désirée wanted you to have these,' taped to a box of belongings: letters, jewellery, cigarettes, sew-on badges, sunglasses, gloves, a wallet, a hand bell, a minidisc player with several numbered discs and a packet of photos. Photos of Orkney. More specifically, of the island, South Ronaldsay, where I grew up. Pictures of St Margaret's Hope, the Pier, the Ploughing Match, the view from the top of the Ontaft, a snap of the seafront that included our old house, and one, wrapped in greaseproof paper, of the Hope Show - an annual village fete. I have it in front of me as I write. On first glance, it looks like nothing much: an indiscriminate wide-angle shot of the school playing field crowded with tents, trampolines and pet shows. But the photo is paper-clipped to a note: 'Second in line at the ice-cream van'. And there I am. In a yellow kagoul. Eight or nine years old.

I gave in and put the first minidisc in the player. It opened with the words: T never meant you any harm. In fact I hope once you've heard what I have to say, you'll consider me a friend.'

Headphones on, I walked from Central London to Tower Bridge and back via the South Bank. By the end of my journey I was amazed and shaken, having heard the story of Désirée's life dictated by Désirée himself. To be addressed by someone no longer living was troubling enough. But then to hear myself spoken of as having had some kind of influence on their life was utterly unsettling.

Désirée claimed he'd lived on South Ronaldsay for some of the time I had, and that we'd even spoken once. But I don't remember him at all. He was six years older than me and had left primary and grammar school before I began either. The few remaining acquaintances I have left on Orkney have been unable to shed any further light.

The only figures I do recognise are the boys who humiliated me on the steps of the town hall. And I do remember a couple of the incidents: the summer evening a whole host of us jumped, fully clothed, into the sea; how, one Halloween, someone threw a squib through our bathroom window.

I caught up with Pascal in a Soho café. He took me up to Désirée's old room. He'd died only three weeks before. Pascal was newly returned from scattering Désirée's ashes and was preparing to leave London for the last time. When I asked Pascal to promise that he wasn't attempting to make me the stooge in some elaborate hoax, he broke down and screamed me out of the flat.

I completed transcription of the discs within a week. Back in London, I showed the story to several friends, including Jimo Toyin Salako, who was sufficiently moved to suggest a series of accompanying photographs. The end result was a memorial of sorts, of which this book forms part.

L.S., London, 2004

Maybe this'll be my resurrection.

I spat in the sink the Morning After the Night Before and it came out gold . . . That's the only way I can think of to say it. Loads of these wee nuggets rattling on the bottom of the sink . . . At first I thought it was a filling that'd come apart. But I don't have any gold fillings . . . What I know now, five weeks on, is that what I spat out that morning was me.

I've got used to the thought now: human alchemy flesh and blood transformed into gold. I don't seriously think I'm turning into a statue, but something very strange and very frightening and very wonderful is happening to me.

My skin's hard, cracked, golden, all over. Moving about staves the nerve endings somehow. It's like really bad shingles, or some sort of electric shock. My duvet feels like sandpaper. My teeth are golden, my nails, the irises of my eyes. My arms and legs have got all stiff. Breathing's getting harder. Talking's agony. My tongue's like molten lead, and my voice has got this mad kind of chime thing going on. Sounds like a bell to me. I can't swallow solids any more. Just got an aching belly full of soup, ice-cream and blancmange.

It's messed with my senses too. I can hear everything: secrets getting whispered in rooms three blocks away. Rats in the subway. Woodworm in the rafters. I can smell the shit and sugar in everything. I can see stars in daylight. Sometimes it all gets mixed up and I see sounds and taste the things I see. Like peach-flavoured sky through my window; when I hear mass being sung way over in St Bartholomew's Church, the air in my room fills with lovely spirals.

I'm lying here in my bed . . . in my flat . . . in Soho . . . in London. Pascal's sitting here with me. He's crying . . . like always. Got a window behind me. I thought about turning the bed round to face it, so's I could watch the last days of my life pass by, but I don't want people ogling at me from the flats across the way. Been seen a couple of times and it's never great.

There's a wardrobe at the end of the bed . . . posters on the wall - all sorts of shit. Stacks of records, books, in the corner. A money plant on the shelf above the portable TV there . . . All these things, just . . . beside the point. Garbage. The only thing folk'd have to remember me by . . . But this is wasting energy.

Everyone round me's lost it, big time. All of them gabbing about gold; going on about everything from jaundice, to yellow fever and even the plague, supposedly sparked off by the millions of hormones and downers I swallowed the Night Before. By the Night Before, I mean the night I OD'd on hormones, downers and booze and jumped off the Millennium Bridge. By the Morning After, I mean spitting in the sink and realising everything was going to be different. But yeah, my nearest and dearest, eh, Pascal?. . . It's like a scene from a passion play - they've been coming to my bedside, wringing their hands, crying their eyes out, pleading with me to see a doctor . . .

I'm afraid to die - no bones about it - but there's no way I want to live. And I haven't wanted to ever since the hormone pills I was forced to take made nothing of me.

I can't think how to explain, except to say . . . I was there in mind but not in body, because my body wasn't my own any more. My body died: insides collapsing, stomach cramps, vomiting, aching bones, my belly going all soft . . . so long to hard-ons. I felt permanently seasick. The last straw was my first tit: suddenly this handful where there'd only been a pec.

I became this man with an unwanted woman's body. And I know how that sounds, but I don't know how else to say it. I didn't want to be with myself. It's like . . . the sounds you make when you're alone are suddenly deafening; even breathing - cos it brings you closer to you. And there's no escape. You're living someone else's life, but they're you, and cos you've got no choice, you lash out. Hate comes into it . . . You avoid eye contact in the mirror, turn music up, always doing something so you don't have to sit with yourself. Every bedtime you pray for sleep to come quick. Before you know it, dark thoughts are creeping up on you. Like you'll be sitting